


as good as blessed

by kay_cricketed



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ice Play, M/M, Multi, Threesome, sensory stimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_cricketed/pseuds/kay_cricketed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt comes home to his family, and they do their best to make a case that it should always be that way.</p><p>Their best involves driving Matt to beg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as good as blessed

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Благословенны будьте](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12097209) by [fandom_Hells_Kitchen_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Hells_Kitchen_2017/pseuds/fandom_Hells_Kitchen_2017), [leoriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoriel/pseuds/leoriel)



> Written for a kink meme prompt requested sensory meltdown and dirty talk that bring Matt to tears. Because I can't help myself, there are _feelings_ , too.

Matt thinks he's going to be okay until they break out the ice cubes.

It's when Karen drags her tongue down his back and it bleeds cold from the sliver melting behind her teeth that he knows. This has been their plan all along: the gentling, then the breaking. He should have expected this. The moment Foggy had said, "Tonight's all about you, buddy," he should've known to be wary.

But Matt is tired and his guard is down. He doesn't like to question them—sometimes he feels like he has no right to do that, not after his deception. He's still learning what is okay and what isn't. More things are okay than not. Karen and Foggy are generous with him: the mask, the long nights spent getting his ass kicked, his reluctance to ask for help. Matt is a work in progress, but they treat him like he's a finished masterpiece, anyway, like his flaws are what make him worth hanging.

Sometimes Matt wonders if that's what love is: accepting what's on the wall.

(He hasn't asked them yet.)

Hell's Kitchen is in downpour. The rain dances on the mean side of frozen, like needles against his exposed skin. He has to call it an early night with nothing to show for it except bruises from reckless junkies and a ringing ear. He staggers down from the rooftop, splattering water in the stairwell and across his bedroom floor panels in messy whorls. There, he stops, teeth clamped to stop them from chattering. He can hear a set of heartbeats in his apartment: staid, familiar records.

It's a surprise, because he thought they had planned to go to the movies, but these are the kinds of surprises Matt is acclimatizing to. When he unpeels from the suit, he inhales the scent of homemade lasagna—Karen, searching his cupboards for a serving dish she won't find—they'll have to eat it out of the pan again. As she clatters around the kitchen, he can hear Foggy struggling with the wine cork. Are they expecting him, or are there only two places set at the table? If they're here, then surely—but it's new, this sharing, this kind of homecoming.

Matt breathes through it. The food smells good and rich and full of oregano. He pulls on a soft v-neck and sweatpants, listening to them. Their voices are relaxed, swinging jokes back and forth about how Matt organizes his drawers. "We should switch some things around," says Foggy with barely repressed excitement.

And Matt smiles. He picks up a towel and drags it through his hair, padding out into the living area. "I'll know if you do," he says.

"Welcome home," says Karen, and she sounds like she's smiling, too. There are no traces of shadow in her voice tonight—only happiness, and anticipation.

He doesn't understand the anticipation until after they've eaten—stuffed their faces, really, with Foggy insisting on splitting a third piece of lasagna with Matt, and Karen getting the hiccups after she swallows too much full-bodied wine—when suddenly they clutch his hands, simultaneous, a practiced maneuver. Their fingers are so different—slim and nimble, sturdy but soft—and he tilts his head, wondering what his own must feel like. Do they notice the calluses, the swollen knuckle? Of course they do.

"We wanted to surprise you," says Karen. "To do something nice for you."

"Tonight's all about you, buddy," Foggy agrees.

It's like his heart has cracked open and been filled with hot syrup. He doesn't always know what to do with the feeling. It's too similar to bleeding out. Matt squeezes their hands and ducks his face, feeling their eyes on him. "It was really good," he says, sincerely. He can't stop the corners of his mouth from lifting. "If you keep this up, Karen, your secret ingredient's not going to stay secret."

"Well, dinner's just the first part," Karen tells him.

Foggy presses his thumb into Matt's palm. "You have to get naked for Phase Two," he says. Then he laughs at Matt's face. It's usually at Matt's face, anyway.

"Do tell?" Matt asks, trying to arch his voice just so. Mostly he fails. He knows he fails because Karen laughs, too.

"You'll love it," she says, and she's always right.

They lead him into the bedroom, Karen drawing him forward and Foggy nudging him from behind. Matt lets himself be herded, startling only when Foggy slides his hands down Matt's sides and pinches his hip. "Nuh-uh," says Karen, "we're on a time table, Foggy."

"She made a time table," Foggy whispers to him.

"I can _hear you_ ," she says, and Matt feels her reach past his face, a sweep of air from the swat she aims at Foggy.

He nuzzles her wrist because he can. From her quickly drawn breath, it isn't expected but neither is it unwelcome. She hums at him and strokes his cheek. Her fingers still carry traces of nail polish remover and oregano.

"Let's get you out of those clothes," she says, kissing him. She tastes like lip gloss and wine, and the edge of it goes to his head a little, sharpens the buzz in the back of his skull. Somewhere out in the night, a fire alarm goes off, but Matt is here with Karen in this moment and he wills the ringing in his ear to fuzz into static.

As they're kissing, Foggy kisses him between his shoulder blades. Hands fumble at his waist, twisting and pulling his sweatpants down over his thighs. This kind of—multitasking—it's also new, unexpected. Matt leans back into him, kicking the sweatpants away when they bunch on his ankles, and bites Karen's lip at the same time. He likes to be gentle with her, but they've also gone behind his back to plan this—fair is fair in war.

"Avocado sandwich," Foggy says, sounding very pleased with himself.

"Foggy," Matt says, pushing against him, "you're breaking the mood." He bites his lip to stop from grinning. It's not hard, though. The denim of Foggy's jeans against his bare ass is—yeah. Distracting. Abrasive.

"Sorry, that's what the candles are for."

"The what?"

"Oh, right!" Karen steps out of his arms and disappears back into the living area, her bare feet sticking slightly to the wood. Matt cants his head, listening, and lets his weight fall back into Foggy. Sometimes it's nice, having someone to hold him up. And Foggy's heart always skips a beat, but there's nothing unsure in how he reacts, looping his arms around Matt and drawing patterns on his stomach.

"Smiley face," says Matt, recognizing one of them. "Uh... Pac-Man?"

"It's very weird you know that," Foggy says, but Matt can tell he's actually impressed. And—something more, something warmer.

(He knows what it is, but you shouldn't name things unless you're prepared to keep them.)

Karen is back—with matches, the white phosphorus an acrid tang in the air—and now Matt can also smell the candles, already left in various places around the bedroom. The lasagna had masked them well. But now he breathes in the wax, the faux odor of linen. He doesn't say that he can't see them. He can feel the flickers of heat, the pinpricks of oxygen devouring fire. He can feel them burn away like small lives.

Foggy eases him into his own bed, onto freshly washed silk sheets.

"Arms up," he says, pulling Matt's shirt up his belly.

Matt lifts his arms, raising an eyebrow in his direction. The shirt pops over his head, making a mess of his hair. Now he's naked and they—aren't. He refuses to give into the creeping self-consciousness, leaning back into the pillows and closing his eyes to better orient himself. Karen blows out the last match and sets a rattling box of—what is it?—on the night table beside the bed. She does something to her hair. He imagines, sometimes, that she's gathering it in her hand and coaxing the fall away from her face. He wants, quite suddenly, quite badly, to get his hands in her hair.

Foggy is uncapping a bottle with a plastic snap. "She's shimmying out of her skirt and it's mouthwatering," he tells Matt. He never seems to care that it's unnecessary. Neither does Matt, and it works for them.

"Is that lotion?" Matt asks.

"Massage oil." It smells like sandalwood and grace, a delicate impression that doesn't overwhelm him. Matt appreciates those kinds of little touches.

Karen sits on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her. She kisses Matt, slow and sweet. "For this to work," she says, "you need to be on your stomach."

"Are we skipping the foreplay?" Matt asks, already rolling over.

Foggy laughs. "The time table is at least _half_ foreplay." He slaps his hands together and rubs them. The scent of the oil thickens, crawling into Matt's mouth, the corners of his eyes.

They pass the bottle over him. It's as if a line is drawn across his back, surprisingly intimate. Matt unravels and rests his cheek on the pillow.

"Just relax and let us make you feel better," says Karen. She digs into his shoulders _hard_ and it's—it's a pulse of pain, bruises upon bruises, but the knots pull in tight and then release. It's so fucking good and Matt hisses between his teeth.

"This is what I'm asking for on my birthday," Foggy informs them. "That was a really good noise." He sets into Matt's lower back, slicking his spine and carefully kneading each vertebra. His work is gentler than Karen's by necessity; there are nearly healed stitches right over Matt's kidney. "Ease up," he murmurs, rubbing small circles above Matt's ass. "C'mon, just let us do our thing."

God help him, Matt does.

They work on him for what could be minutes, could be hours. Karen is brutal against his soreness, wedging the heel of her palm beneath his shoulder blades and exerting pressure until Matt groans. He can feel his skin flush against her, the slow slackening of muscles beneath her touch. The oil tingles where it's been rooted into his flesh. The tingling only grows with every minute, until it approaches burning, and Matt squirms beneath them like a caught fish. Foggy kisses the top of his head and tells him to ride it out.

The advice works until Karen straddles his legs and Matt can feel her panties cut against them both. Her hair tickles him as she leans over his body, massaging his hips and—lower still, and she hasn't before, nothing more than a grope, than grabbing his ass when they fuck—and Matt gives a full-body shudder, mouth slack. Arousal is a scent, too, a musk that permeates the room as soon as he begins to get hard. They aren't quite there yet, but suddenly Matt is very aware of every pore, every ligament, every place they connect their bodies. He's aware, and he wants, and he burns with the world around him.

Foggy kneads his calves, easing the last of the aches and pains. He circles Matt's ankles a few times, pushes a thumb into the bottom of his foot. Matt arches back up into Karen and goes, "Ah. Ah _fuck_."

He's clutching fistfuls of the pillow. He's not sure when that happened.

Karen presses her body against his, her breasts bare against his back. She bites the back of his neck, more endearment than admonishment. Matt breathes out in relief because he knows these signs, the thready pulses between them, the way Foggy begins to shift as if he can't get comfortable. He expects it when Karen says, "Time to turn over, Matt."

He does so, kind of drunkenly. The oil is still burning, wildfire across him in equal parts pleasure and pain. He has the feeling it would be really nice if he didn't have heightened senses. It's really nice, anyway. But he's ready for—more.

Karen uncaps the oil again. "Halfway there," she says, and no, _damn it_.

"This is nice," Matt breathes, twisting up beneath her, "but uncalled for. I think I'm—good. To go."

"Uh-huh?"

Foggy is working his way up Matt's body again. He kisses Karen's shoulder—Matt can hear his lips drag across a beloved spot, where Foggy has told them there are sun freckles—and sighs in contentment. "He says he's good to go."

"You can take over for a little bit," Karen says, decisively. She crawls up Matt's body until her thighs are on either side of his head. She's—god, she's wet, he can practically taste her this close—balancing with care so as not to hurt him, because that's Karen, who she is, neatly packaged and relentless, good at heart. Matt slides his hands up her legs, examines the lace on the elastic of her undergarment. It feels more practical than expensive, and he likes it, the texture.

"You can, can't you?" asks Karen, reaching down to pull aside the lace and cotton.

"Jesus," Matt whispers to himself, pure blasphemy.

Yeah, he can.

He doesn't have to lift his face much. Just enough—just enough to lick into her, tentative and tasting. Her breath hitches. That, and the strong thrumming quiver through her, tear into Matt like a hunger. He grabs her by the hips and eats her out like he's never had a woman before—never had a meal—never gorged. When he catches her clit and sucks on it, Karen smacks her palm into the headboard and curses at him. Matt can feel the reverberation deep into his bones.

He's so busy lapping at her wetness that he almost, almost forgets Foggy. But those hands are still on him below, working up his legs, getting closer to where Matt's erection is aching. Fingers knead into his inner thighs, and Matt moans into Karen and widens his knees without thinking. He has to let up to gasp for air when Foggy lifts him beneath his knees and opens him further, kindly but firm.

"Hurrying along back there," Karen says, her breathing damp and heavy.

"I haven't even touched him yet," says Foggy. "Have I?" he tells Matt.

" _Please_ touch me," pants Matt. His mouth and chin are slick, and he smells entirely like Karen and sandalwood. There is nothing left of the blood on him.

"Um," says Foggy, arousal curling the word up into a tiny ball. He does touch Matt, then, grasping his cock and giving it a long pull. Matt can feel every centimeter of that pull lifting his pelvis off of the mattress, dragging noise out of his throat. The oil blazes in an unfamiliar way, bursts like starflight, sizzling pieces of lightening swallowed by earth. He thrashes.

Karen rides it out, stealing Matt's hand and pushing it against one of her breasts. It's warm and full; he can feel her heart as if it's in his palm. "Don't lose focus, Mr. Murdock," she says, peppering him with kisses.

"Hurts," Matt says, but it doesn't take heightened senses to tell he's lying. Mostly lying. Even so, Foggy eases up, shifts away for a moment. Matt can hear another bottle uncapped, this one more familiar: the lube, half empty. 

"I need your mouth again, Matt," Karen says.

He opens up, seeking her out. His teeth graze her underwear before finding her swollen labia. She shivers above him and the shiver travels down into him, mangles his own limbs, his own body. "That's it," Karen whispers, graveling the words. "That's so good. Your mouth is so good, Matt. Get me good and wet, okay? Like Foggy's gonna do for you, okay?"

Foggy makes a noise of assent, stroking the heat between Matt's legs, twisting up in the way that Matt likes best. He works him slow, paying special attention to his head, and Matt gives up on remaining stationary, pushes his hips up into every motion, heels digging down into the sheets and trying to find purchase.

"Tell me it's okay, buddy," Foggy says, trailing down beneath Matt's balls. He touches Matt, and it makes Matt's toes curl. "Give me a green light."

Matt hooks an ankle over Foggy's hip, the kind of uncanny move he can't make with anyone else. "Green," he strains, his brain filtering out the red and calling forth the memories—summer grass, pop bottles, little plastic dinosaurs. "It's green, it's—green."

"Give him more than that," Karen says. She grinds down into his collarbone, rocking on top of him. It leaves her mark on him.

Matt writhes, trying to push down on Foggy's carefully questing fingers, trying to get Karen back where he needs her. "Assholes," he says, "god, _please_."

"Please what?"

He cracks down the middle a little. "Please fuck me," he begs. "Please—inside."

"We've got you," Foggy murmurs, and now he's breaching Matt, sinking two fingers in with shocking ease. It hurts, a little, but not much, not after the massage and with the slick and the months of getting trashed on the streets, and the push inside jolts all the way up Matt's spine. He buries his face in Karen's thigh and cries out, stomach heaving.

"Shh," she soothes, petting his hair. "You're okay. Relax for us? Please? Relax. Let him in, Matt. You've taken him before, you can take him in again. Foggy's been looking forward to this part, you know? He wants to open you up slow and good and _deep_ , and then he's going to fuck you like that until you want something bigger, until you're greedy for his cock. Until you're _howling_ for it."

"Okay, wow," says Foggy. "You're freakily good at this."

"Tell him, Foggy."

"She's right," he says, curling his fingers inside Matt and dragging them out some. It hooks in Matt's navel, a sharp pang of need. "I, uh—I always wanted to have you... come from just this. When it's not enough. Watch you try to fit—more of me."

Matt tries not to pray. He's not sure he's managing, because he can hear a litany of words dashing against the walls of his mind, crushed under the heat and need and stimulation. He's simultaneously aware of Karen's body softening for something more, of Foggy's arousal pressing thick and heavy against his leg, of an entire city beyond them drowned out in rain, music pulsing in the street, the plastic whirl of umbrellas. But he's trained for endurance his whole life. He can handle it. He's not going to break from this, of all things.

That's what he holds onto, those long minutes where Foggy squelches so much lube into him that he feels as wet as Karen. Those clumsy fingers know just how to wring Matt out, where to press to make him jolt, how to suddenly increase in number and widen him, fill him until it's unbearable. He can _feel_ when Foggy pushes in up to his knuckles, wrecking Matt's heartbeat irreparably. He suffers every twist of his wrist, every scrape of fingernail against vulnerable places. When Foggy crooks his fingers, Matt about kicks him in the face.

It might be—easier—if Foggy pounded into him, put his strength into it. But it's slow. It's maddening. It strings Matt out on a line until he's not sure where he's ended up, only that he's starting to fray. He's almost sick by the time his orgasm crawls forth.

No one has to touch Matt's cock. Not once. He comes the first time whining in his throat, thighs tight from trying to hold himself up for something more. As soon as his seed flecks across his belly—he thinks some might hit Karen's back, but he's not sure—Matt collapses into sheets dampened with his sweat. 

And he thinks it might be over.

"God, Matt," says Foggy softly, and it's more than just wanting. "Wish you could see yourself like this. You're amazing."

He means it, is utterly sincere. Matt accepts the words because he doesn't have a choice, because there's a man screaming on the first floor at his wife, telling her she's _immaterial_ , and Foggy is here in his bed calling him amazing as he coaxes Matt down from the rafters, as he licks Matt's come off his belly.

"Oh," Matt says blearily. Gets his fingers in Foggy's hair. The wet rasp of tongue on his skin is almost too much.

"No, sweetheart," says Karen. "We're not done with you yet."

"Time table," Foggy agrees.

"It's time to get him on his knees," says Karen, proud of herself, and it's the both of them, it always has been.

(He's never certain if they're his penance or his reparation, if this is a trial he's destined to fail or God's way of providing for Matt Murdock. Most nights, Matt doesn't care, even if he should. There are things not even God is allowed to touch.)

He's fighting the aftershocks, leaden and heavy. Foggy helps him up onto his hands and knees when Matt falters, bracing Matt against the headboard. The way he places Matt's hands against the cedar, as if he's worried Matt won't be able to find surface, takes all the fight out of Matt's soul and makes it clean again. He breathes until calm descends, until he can feel every part of his body where it ought be.

And he's fine, he's going to be fine, until Karen picks something up from the night table—from the little box she brought in with her—and clicks it between her teeth. She cups Matt's cheek and kisses him. The cold blisters against his lips, and he startles.

"Oh, that's nice," groans Foggy, shucking the last of his clothes. His belt clinks on the floor.

Ice. It's an ice cube, it's—ice.

Matt sucks in air _hard_ as Karen mouths his shoulder, painting him in saliva and frozen burn. The frigid trail slices a path down his back, her tongue pressing into indents, secret places, pools of cooling sweat. She sucks a hickey into his hip that _bleeds_ cold, that makes Matt curse and mash his forehead against the headboard.

Another piece clicks between her teeth, and she winds into the space between him and the wall, stealing his pillows. Leans back and opens her legs around him. "Come here," she says, drawing him close for another kiss. She passes the ice into his mouth as she does, her lips numb, and Matt's teeth ache with agony. He tries to pass it back to her, and they suck it between them until it's almost gone, the drippings falling between them into ether space.

Foggy's hand has been in the ice tray, too. He reaches beneath Matt and draws it down Matt's belly, making soothing noises when Matt bucks. "Nughh," says Matt. His heightened senses seize up and fail, an impression of needles returning banked with bemused longing. He wants to be touched; it hurts, but he wants to be touched.

"Matt," says Karen, drawing his mouth down into her breasts. His breath is cool against her now, and he knows they're both affected.

Foggy bites the base of Matt's spine, just enough to leave a mark to match Karen's. "Give me a green light, man," he says.

Matt isn't sure what he means, but he says it, anyway. "Green. It's always green, Foggy."

It isn't until Foggy's fingers press against him again, where he's still raw and wet and empty, that Matt realizes he's not going to keep himself together for this. The ice _burns_ even though it's barely surviving him, melting as quickly as Foggy can slip it in. He cries out, scrambling against Karen, but someone's holding onto him and keeping him in place. "Don't," Matt stutters, "d-don't, don't—"

And even though he's drawing away, the ice is already melted, the shock past, and Matt's hard again, leaking hard and confused. Karen hugs him close and Matt presses his open mouth to her neck, panting. "You did so good," she's telling him, sliding her fingers through his damp hair. "We've got you, Matt. Do you believe me?"

Matt heaves for air, trying to calm the juddering of his pulse.

"Matt, do you believe me?"

"I do," he says, barely able to manage the words.

She reaches beneath him and squeezes his cock. "Haven't we made you feel good? Don't we always make you feel good?"

Foggy is leaving pockmarked kisses down his spine, the kind of precise nips that won him an amazing reputation in bed despite all awkwardness. He rubs Matt's sides, maybe in apology, maybe to calm—Matt can't tell with his head spinning. He'd told Foggy about that, once. The spinning, how even Matt could feel the world wrench beneath him. It's about equilibrium and the people who ruin it.

"Spinning," he says, uselessly. He shakes his head. Wrong answer.

But it's not. "Yeah," says Foggy, and he sounds—different. There's a weight and gravity to his voice that—god, it winds all up in Matt's belly, goes straight to his cock. "The best kind of spinning."

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Karen asks, and it's half needing to know, half drawing Matt out into the void further. "Because we could do this more often, Matt. Me and Foggy, we did a lot of research on the Internet. At my place. We could do all kinds of things to you when we've got you strung out like this. Put all kinds of stuff in you, things you couldn't guess at even if you could see them, fuck you speechless." She jerks him off, short quick motions that keep Matt spinning, keep him tumbling off edges. He can no longer sense anything beyond the room. "We could close up the office sometime, tie you up and have you all to ourselves for the whole day. We could just come in and ride you hard whenever we wanted to come, and leave you hanging there, wearing us." 

Matt makes wounded noises in staccato, hips moving with her. He wants to be inside of her. He wants something to fill him up. He wants Foggy to lay him down so the whirling stops. Their combined heartbeats fill up his hearing, resound so loudly in his brain that Matt can barely hear Karen past the noise. Lungs, filling and expanding. A trickle of melted water running down his thigh to the sheet.

She takes a deep breath, ghosting over his cheek. "We could wake you up every morning by making love to you, Matt."

He crumples.

He bites out a fucking _sob_.

"Brace yourself open, okay," Karen whispers to him.

Foggy is falling apart nearly as quickly at Matt, a pale comfort. He fumbles with Matt a few times before he gets into position behind him, his cock pushing up into Matt's balls. For a minute, he rubs himself against Matt, dragging against where he's still flush open.

Matt twists between them both, trying to catch his cock again. "Oh," he hitches, tearing up, " _oh_ , God—"

"Tell him, Matt," Karen commands.

"I want—I want it," he cries, "I want it."

(He means it: the sunshine, the bed too full of bodies, the morning breath and empty orange juice container in the recycling bin.)

"Give it to me," he says, voice broken and wet. "Please. Please, I'm—not doing good here, I'm not okay."

"Matty," Foggy says, just his name, in a way he hasn't heard for a very long while. He guides himself inside, feeding his cock an inch at a time. The living heat undoes the very last strings holding Matt together, and he slumps down into Karen's belly, trembling. They hold him, though. They hold him in one piece, reassemble him, murmur fierce compliments into his hair and back. They wait until he's mostly okay.

They love him, sort of, and it's more than he deserves.

"No one's to say that," Foggy tells him, rocking into him gently. He has the patience of a saint. "I'll whack them with my baseball bat if anyone even thinks about it. That's what it's for, ass-kicking. Protecting the devil of Hell's Kitchen whenever the call comes."

Matt laughs, thin and wrung out. He hugs Karen to him and lets Foggy move him, move them both, until he's so deep that Matt's stomach feels rearranged. He hiccups damply, bracing himself against Karen and the bed.

Karen guides his hand between her legs, where she's on the edge. He can smell her orgasm before it comes on his fingertips, working frantically within her. She clamps down around him and groans like it was dragged out of her soul's framework, a sound Matt replicates in his memories and holds onto for dark times. He imagines that she must be beautiful when she comes—radiant, like kaleidoscopes are in his reminiscences. She manages to come twice while Foggy's making love to him, hitching up Matt's hips until Matt's knees are barely grazing the mattress. When she's sated and boneless, Karen kisses Matt's nose.

"Does his cock feel good inside you?" she asks, breathless.

Matt keens as much at the question as how Foggy picks up pace, slamming his hips into Matt. The pleasure is quicksilver, short bursts of overly sensitized bliss that devastate what's left of Matt's senses. He tries to say _yes_. It comes out crackled and bleary.

"Foggy?"

"Jesus, yes, it feels good," he pants, fucking into Matt harder. "Matt—Matty, god—you feel so amazing, yes yes _yes_."

Matt is aware of someone making frantic, stunned noises in quick succession. He realizes only when the sound funnels back through him again that it's him. Beneath them, the bedframe squeaks rustily on its legs, and it nearly drowns out his choked sounds. The tears are still sliding down his face, but he can't tell if he's crying, not when Foggy's cock is ramming into his prostate, not when it's _just right_.

"Is he still tight?" Karen asks, cupping Matt's face.

"Ughh, no, he's all—taking it," says Foggy, hips jerking erratically. When he's about to come, he smells like—he's just like— 

Karen reaches and tugs on Matt's cock once, three times. " _Now_ , Matt," she says.

Matt comes so hard he blacks out.

He's partially aware, after a long moment, of the world boxed in on his mattress. He feels, distantly, Foggy curse as he spends inside him, grinding so hard against Matt for every pulse of seed that Matt knows he'll feel him there for days. He imagines, or doesn't, Karen telling him how good he is, how gorgeous and perfect and loved, how they make the best of each other when they're together. He lets them rearrange him like a doll, clasped in Karen's arms and comfortably nested against Foggy's side. The devil they clawed out of him hangs off the edge of the bed, for once out of reach, out of mind. He's with it just enough to hear the words Foggy whispers into his ear, a secret between them made safe and locked tight.

"We mean it, you know. It'd be better for us, to be here at night when you come home. It'd be better for you, Matt. We need it to be better for you."

(He sleeps, without fear, without fire.)


End file.
